


As You Were

by Emphysematous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consensual Thramsay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, off-camera incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9902051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emphysematous/pseuds/Emphysematous
Summary: Theon digs out his Lord of the Iron Islands outfit for a game of "Prince and the Bastard" with Ramsay. Plus some off-camera Ramsay/Domeric. Because why not?Another installment in LelithSugar's Consensual!Thramsay canon divergence (R & T are perverts in love living out a BDSM wet dream of fully consensual power exchange)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Helward_Mann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helward_Mann/gifts).



> For katrinagallacher on Tumblr, who wanted to see more role-reversal. Unfortunately, I can't seem to write a straight PWP without opening a massive can of incestual backstory. Whoops. 
> 
> I highly recommend reading more of the Bloodied Up collection to get an idea of their dynamic, but essentially it's spun off from the canon at the start of Season Three of the show, with Theon captured at the Dreadfort. But in this version, they’re in a happy, consensual (albeit very twisted, BDSM-themed) relationship, with the torture and abuse mostly used as a cover-up to maintain their public personas and allow them to live out their perverted fantasies to their hearts’ content. Theon is (mostly) whole, with the whole cutting-bits-off thing simply the result of rumour gone wild. He does have a lot of very interesting scars, though

Ramsay trudges up the stairs, body aching and tired after hours of sword drills in the yard. Legitimacy had increased expectations that he be able to at least hold his own against any man sent up against him and while usually they held back somewhat - his reputation for occasionally taking things personally working to his advantage - or he was able to use his position to get out of the worst of the bouts, today Roose had decided to emerge from his solar and oversee the troops training, leaving him with no excuses and no escape. His limbs ache and his arms and ribs feel bruised to the bone from the blunted sword hits. Unlatching the door to his rooms, Ramsay was looking forward to getting out of his bulky padding, getting some food, and possibly getting head if Theon was done with his kitchen duties already.

Stripping out of his outer layers in the anteroom, Ramsay calls out, “Thee? You in here?” There was a carafe of warmed wine and a platter with slices of meat and roast vegetables on the table, which smells obscenely good to him right now. He helps himself to a caramelised carrot and wanders through to his bedchamber, frowning at the drapes which were still drawn closed over the windows.

His Highness, Theon of House Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands, heir to the Seastone Chair of Pyke is standing in candlelight at the mantelpiece, toying with the leather bindings of his sword grip.

Ramsay stops dead, jaw actually dropping as he takes in the sight of Theon - _Reek_ \- regaled once again in his highborn finery. Spotless iron grey breeches tucked neatly into polished black boots. A grey surcoat left unbuttoned over a gold shirt. Black leather gloves stuffed into a pocket and a luxurious charcoal cloak trimmed with grey fur tossed artfully over a chair. Theon’s chin rises imperiously as Ramsay enters, confident eyes tracking up and down his mud-spattered body with indifferent disdain.

“Good, you’re here.” Theon holds out a silver goblet. “Refill this and then go and wash yourself.” He turns his attention back to his sword grip, arm still outstretched until Ramsay steps forward to take the cup.

“What the fuck is this, Thee?” Ramsay flicks at Theon’s embroidered coat, wondering where he might have got it from. Theon’s head whips round, affronted disgust pinching his face. The regal outrage and the daggerlike glare actually make Ramsay step back, giving him a visceral flashback to being taunted by his half-brother while he was sprawled in the mud outside his mother’s mill. Theon’s eyes flick pointedly to the empty cup in Ramsay’s hand and then he turns away, dismissing the unimportant. Ramsay’s stomach flips.

Leaning in, he growls into Theon’s ear. “You are going to be in _soooo_ much trouble after this…” He grins though, happy to go along with this new game for the time being. Theon flashes him a wink before dismissing him again.

Smiling to himself, Ramsay goes to fetch Prince Theon’s wine, placing it gently on the mantel with a murmured “my lord”. He’s ignored, which makes him grimace - _no one fucking ignores Ramsay Bolton_. He pushes the insult down, adding its heat to his adolescent embarrassment; wordlessly, he helps himself to the waiting warm water and strips his shirt off wash the sweat and mud from his body.

Behind him, Theon crosses the room to recline in Ramsay’s easy chair, watching him clean off his morning’s work. He sips at his wine - Ramsay’s wine. “What’s your name, miller boy?”

Ramsay shivers, catching on to exactly what Theon was doing. _Fuck, the boy’s playing with fire with this scene…_ Still going along with it, he clutches his washcloth with both hands, wringing it nervously in front of his chest. “R’msy, m’lod…” he mumbles, falling back into inarticulate country boy again.

“Ramsay _what_?” Theon pushes, eyes flinty, dipping one finger into the wine and lifting it to catch a drop on his tongue.

“R’msy Sno’, m’lod,” Ramsay stares at his feet, hating how easily Theon could make him so uncomfortable. His accuracy at recreating something he hadn’t been present at was getting unnerving. Had someone been talking to him? But who?

“Oh a _Snow_!” Theon leans forward delightedly. He rests his chin on his hand, studying Ramsay intently. “I’ve never met a _bastard_ before…” He cocks his head. “Are you really as degenerate as my septon tells me?”

Inwardly, Ramsay snaps back a dozen smart-arsed retorts. Outwardly he blushes, shaking his head at the floor.

Theon pouts slightly. “Oh. What a pity.” He stands, parking his wine on the seat of his vacated chair. He advances on Ramsay with proud, stately steps. “Does that mean you’ve never sucked a cock? Hmmn, miller boy?”

Ramsay looks up, clawing back a fraction of pride. “No, m’lord,” he replies, with just a hint of a cocky smirk.

“Oh?” Theon raises an eyebrow. He eyes Ramsay up and down again, reappraising him. It makes Ramsay’s skin crawl to be looked at like that. His cock twitches. Theon shrugs out of his surcoat, letting it flop unheeded to the floor. “Ever sucked off a prince?”

They stand face to face. Or noble chin to baseborn hairline, as Ramsay cannot seem to make himself look up. “No, m’lod?” he squeaks out, clinging to his washcloth with all his might, his entire face burning red.

Theon traces his jawline with a perfect, manicured finger, raising his chin to force him to look at his prince. “Would you like to?” His voice was smokey and low, with just enough authority; this wasn’t really a question.

“M’lod,” Ramsay murmurs, neither affirming nor denying, just acknowledging that the prince had spoken.

“Get on with it then.” Theon flicks his fingers toward his crotch, rolling his eyes at this dense oaf’s stupidity. “Down on your knees…” he prompts, like Ramsay needs step-by-step instruction.

With one brief glare promising all kinds of future revenge, Ramsay drops neatly to his knees and reaches to open Theon’s trousers. His fingers are actually shaking. The fearless confidence and authority that Theon exudes has thrown him completely back to that summer afternoon in the meadow. Fuck. His head swims, conflicting emotions coiling through his gut. Lust and excitement feature prominently, with tinges of trepidation and of course, that low drone of bitter regret.

Tutting at the pause, Theon coughs, glancing down. “Those are buttons, boy. _Buh- tons_ ” he explains helpfully, folding back the fastening of his trousers to reveal the button fly. Ramsay almost chokes. That’s a detail he hadn’t expected to be included. “I know you’ve probably only ever seen laces,” Theon continues, “They’re new, from Essos. Here, let me show you…”

He walks Ramsay’s hands through manipulating the buttons and then guides his fingers to wrap around his firming cock. Ramsay looks up at him, eyes wide and almost innocent and Theon nods imperiously at him and lays a hand on the top of his head. Ramsay opens his mouth.

This, this is where it breaks down. Theon is _his_ , this is _home_. No amount of expensive clothes and fine acting is going to make this feel like that first time with Domeric. Theon smells of woodsmoke and rosemary water - he’s obviously bathed in preparation for this - and he’s familiar, almost comforting. Ramsay feels like he belongs. Domeric had been… horses and leather and alien and imposing. It had been a headrush of fear and terrible, gut-wrenching excitement.

Despite the parallel with his his brother being fractured, Theon’s body language - the hand on his head, the impatient thrust of his hips - is still regal enough to keep Ramsay in the scene and he falls into the blowjob with timid enthusiasm; a country boy servicing a prince.

“Good boy…” Theon purrs, approvingly. His hand slides to the back of Ramsay’s head, holding him firmly. “And _allll_ the way…” he pushes firmly and Ramsay struggles to control his gag reflex; he’s never been as good at this as Theon - or Dom, for that matter. “Fuck, good boy,” Theon twitches, tossing his head back and Ramsay feels a flash of satisfaction - marred by sudden choking.

Spluttering a little, he pulls back and concentrates on the head, tonguing at Theon’s slit and the sensitive underside, just how he knows he likes it. From Theon’s gasped breath and clenched hand in his hair, he’s headed in the right direction. He surfaces for air. Theon yanks his head back.

“Ever been fucked by a prince, miller boy?” he growls, pulling Ramsay roughly to his feet. Hissing a little from the assault to his hair, Ramsay stumbles upright and trips over Theon’s surcoat, falling flailing facefirst onto the bed. “Oh, such a good boy!” Theon laughs, a laugh that’s very pointedly at Ramsay, and not with him. “Get naked,” he orders, peeling off his shirt as he speaks.

“Are you really…?” Ramsay squirms onto his elbows, looking around over his shoulder to watch Theon opening a pot of grease.

“Get. Naked.” Theon stares him down. After a moment of defiance, Ramsay rolls onto his side to unlace his breeches. Theon nods, his lip curling in satisfaction. “Slut.”

The Prince of the Iron Islands is methodical and workmanlike in getting him ready for his cock and pushes himself in with similar frankness. Ramsay keens out, not used to this, and certainly not so abruptly. Theon pushes his head down into the bed, holding him in place while he’s fucked. Ramsay grabs handfuls of blanket, closing his eyes and giving into it.

“Fuck. You fucking _bastard_ whore!” Theon pants out, squeezing a handful of Ramsay’s arse cheek so hard his nails cut into his skin. “Oh, fuck!” He claws at Ramsay’s back, spilling hard inside him. “Shit, Ram. Fuck.” He collapses forward, draping himself over Ramsay’s body, breaking character for a moment and letting himself soak in the moment. “Ugh, yes.”

Peeling himself away from Ramsay, Theon gives him an appreciative slap on the arse. “Well done lad,” he grunts, using his highborn voice again. “Here, for your trouble.” There’s the clink of coins being tossed on the bed and then the prince is sweeping past him, leaving Ramsay sweaty and come-streaked, alone face-down on his bed.

It’s so shockingly similar to how Domeric had left him the first time: alone in the meadow, used, come dribbling down his chin, a handful of copper coins thrown at his knees - that Ramsay almost feels sick. Almost. Then the wave of dirty desperation washes over him and his cock is in his hand just like it was that day by the mill and he comes over his fingers staring at those coins just like he had before.

Chest heaving, Ramsay wipes his fingers on the bedsheets and rolls onto his back, staring unseeingly up at his ceiling.

“Ram?” Theon taps at the bedchamber door, all of his princely poise stripped away, leaving just Theon - his Thee. Ramsay spreads his arms in invitation and Theon crawls into a hug, kissing at his temple. “You okay?” He’s nervous and shy, worried.

Ramsay squeezes him. “So okay.” He nuzzles into Theon’s neck. “How did you… _know_?”

Theon wriggles closer, wrapping a leg around Ramsay’s thighs. “Putting a lot of stuff together from bits and pieces. Probably finding claw marks and eggshells and coming up with dragons.” He bites his lip. “Are you…?”

“No, not at all,” Ramsay shakes his head. “Not upset at all. Just a bit amazed at how right you got it. A bit… unnerving.”

“You’ve told me quite a bit, over the years. In little pieces.” Theon clings to him. “I listen, Ram.”

A smile and a kiss. “Yes you do, you perfect little squid.” Another kiss. A hold of the throat. “And I’m going to enjoy getting you back for this so fucking much.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first request-fic, so I hope I did okay!
> 
> Further requests, or any comments and feedback are very warmly received!


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